


Five Times Stiles Tried to Make Up for the Nogitsune (And One Time He was Begged to Stop)

by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And apparently am still not over it, Because I am 3B trash, Because I really wish the kid would get some professional help, Hurt Stiles, PTSD, Trigger Warning: Homophobia in Section 3, post-3B, recovering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasetheWindTouchtheSky/pseuds/ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Nogitsune, Stiles puts all his practice of pretending to be ‘fine’ to use. But it doesn’t help the nightmares, the guilt, and insomnia. So he starts going out of his way to earn his place in the world back. But he isn’t sure there is one anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Stiles Tried to Make Up for the Nogitsune (And One Time He was Begged to Stop)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! It’s been a while!
> 
> I was on a walk, listening to my music on shuffle when the song “Through Heaven’s Eyes” from The Prince of Egypt came on. And I was listening to the lyrics and it got me upset about Season Four and how there was really no aftermath from the Nogitsune or anything, so this is the inspiration! It was inspired by the specific line:
> 
> “When all you have is nothing, there’s a lot to go around.”
> 
> Also: I know Season 5 has started, but I am Season 3B trash and forever disappointed that there was really no aftermath in Season 4. So, forever will obsess over the Nogitsune and write my own stuff.

 

 

It wasn’t anything new.

 

That’s what Stiles tells himself at least. He readjusts his shirt, clearing his throat as he enters the back. He can’t go in the front door because he knows Mama McCall is there and she’s the last person he wants to see. Because it’s one thing to know that he’s the scum of the earth, but it’s a whole other ballgame to see undeserving pity in the eyes of those around him.

 

He rummages in his backpack and pulls out a plastic name tag, clipping it to the front of his flannel shirt. _Stiles_. His hand hesitates over it and he runs his thumbs over the grooves. “My name is Stiles Stilinski,” he mutters to himself, closing his eyes. His heart is beating a little too fast – but that’s more than the norm these days – and his hands are a little shaky. “I’m seventeen years old. My father is Sheriff Stilinski. My brother is Scott McCall. I nearly died, but I d-deserved to—“

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles looks up to see a warm, pleasant-looking nurse with a bright smile and kind eyes. “Sweetie, everything alright?”

 

Stiles lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, sorry. I was just, uh, running through my grocery list.”

 

“I get it,” the nurse says with a small smile. “I do the same thing. I swear, if I don’t write things down these days, I’ll never remember to get anything.”

 

He knows she humoring him, but he chooses to be grateful instead of upset. Returning her smile, he sets his backpack at the corner of the wall and sets his jaw. “Anything I should know before going in there?”

 

“It’s a rough day,” the nurse says, her smile faltering. “He hasn’t let anyone in there all day. Not even his dad. We can’t get him to eat anything or even take his meds. If this keeps up, we’ll have to sedate him just so we can.”

 

Stiles nods his head, entirely unsurprised. “It’s a hard day.”

 

“Yes it is,” she responds, her eyes watering. “It would be for anyone who’s had that experience.”

 

Stiles firmly looks to the ground because it’s interesting, not because he can feel the sting of tears in his eyes. "I’ll do my best.” He says.

 

“I’m not concerned about that.” She says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You always do.”

 

Her touch is warm. Stiles has been so cold these days, he can’t help but lean into it. But after a few moments, he snaps out of it. No. No, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve warmth. Not after everything, after the hospital and the bomb and Allison…

 

Oh God, Allison.

 

Stiles straightens up, running his hand through his hair absent-mindedly. “Yeah, I’m going to try and see if I can get him to eat something.”

 

Stiles brushes past the nurse without so much as a goodbye – rude, he knows, but he doesn’t deserve her sympathy dammit, he’s here to make things right – and tries not to look at the walls. Because all he can see is the blood dripping from chairs and pooling on the floor after the Oni massacred everyone. All he can see are the bodies that piled up because of him. All he can see is Allison’s dead eyes…

 

He pushes through the door 314 and is greeted by a bedpan being thrown at his head.

 

He narrowly misses being brained by a bed pan (ew, gross) and cries, “Please tell me that wasn’t used.”

 

“I don’t want you here!”

 

Stiles clutches his chest melodramatically. “You hurt me, really.”

 

But Stiles takes in the kid. He’s only seven. He’s got the blankets clutched up to his chin and his eyes are red. He’s not actively crying, but Stiles knows he probably only stopped because he was surprised someone dared to come into his room. “Get out, Stiles!” The kid shouts again. “I hate you and I don’t want people I hate in here!”

 

Stiles can take a little hate. God knows he deserves that. Instead of heeding the word of a terrifying seven-year-old, Stiles takes a seat in the chair in the corner of the room. “Nah, I’m good. You thought throwing a bed pan would deter me, but not even on the top ten list of gross things I’ve seen.”

 

“ _Get out right now! I hate you!”_

 

It’s a surprising amount of vitriol coming from someone so small. “Seems like you hate everyone today, seeing as you’re not allowing anyone in your room.” Stiles says, trying to ignore how the words echo in his head and reverberate the truth. “I get that. I get hating the world.”

 

And he does.

 

And that’s when everything within reach is thrown at him. At first it’s small things, like the stupid plastic pink cup next to him, soaking Stiles’ pants. Then it’s the television remote. And then a clipboard.

 

Stiles just takes it.

 

He gets it. He really does. If anyone would understand this anger, it would be him. Because Stiles knows that on this day, two years ago, this particular kid’s mother died in a car crash on the way to the hospital, trying to make it to his surgery. His name is Darren and he has lupus. A disease with no cure. And his mother died, trying to make it before he woke up. And when he did, he had no mother.

 

Stiles would hate the world too.

 

The hospital has a Big Brother program. Stiles has been volunteering ever since the massacre in the pediatric wing. He has about three patients he regularly checks in on. Darren definitely is the angriest of the three, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. It’s not the first time he’s had things thrown at him from this tiny child, and probably not the last.

 

Not to mention, how can he earn back his life from the Nogistune?

 

Scott once said that Deaton told him about this theory called Regression to the Means. Basically, the world has a way of balancing itself out. If that was the case, Stiles knows he has to endure a lot to balance out what he’s done. He can get hit with a television remote. That’s not a big deal.

 

It isn’t until Darren manages to rip the phone off the wall and chuck it at Stiles’ head does someone else come in to intervene. Stiles yelps out when it strikes him, covering his face with his hands. When he pulls back, his fingers are sticky with blood and suddenly there are several people in the room.

 

It gets incredibly loud incredibly fast.

 

People are rushing around, holding down the seven-year-old down and shoving a needle in his arm. Stiles’ eyes water at the sight – enough to where he wants to look away from it.

 

No one should be sedated without their permission.

 

Tears are rolling from his eyes as they grow heavy and Stiles comes closer. “’ate you. H’te you so much.” Darren is muttering, tears leaking from his eyes.

 

“I know, buddy.” Stiles say quietly. “It’s okay to hate me. It’s okay to hate everyone. It’s okay to be mad. And it’s okay to miss her.”

 

Darren’s face grows soft. It’s no longer hard lines of hate and anger, but sorrow. “Please come back,” he says softly.

 

Something in Stiles breaks and he tries not to cry himself. “Always,” he whispers. “I always come back.”

 

Darren nods as his eyes slide close.

 

People are ushering him out of the room and Stiles finds himself forgotten for a bit. He presses his back against a wall and lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. His entire body is shaking.

 

“Stiles, oh my God!” The kindly nurse is at him a few minutes later, her eyes wide. “Don’t tell me he did this to you!”

 

She grabs his face and presses her fingers gently against the wound. Stiles winces, flinching away from her touch. “It’s not a big deal. He’s got impressive aim for a seven-year-old. Actually, I should tell coach he’s got another player in a couple years.”

 

“Stiles, follow my finger.” She says as if he hasn’t said anything at all, putting a finger in front of his face.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m _fine_ —“ God, how many times has he said that in the past five months? “He’s strong, but I’m not so pathetic to be taken out by a seven-year-old.”

 

The woman isn’t having any of it, though. Stiles tries to break free – he wants to explain that he deserves this, really he does, this is just the Universe balancing itself – but she won’t let him escape. “Rosey, I have two other people I have to check up on, just let me wash up in the bathroom and I’ll—“

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles winces.

 

He winces because he knows that voice and this was the exact opposite of what he wanted to have happen. “Nope, not Stiles. Just a random dude.”

 

Mrs. McCall comes shuffling down the hall, her hands on her hips and in the lavender scrubs that Stiles secretly loves. “Stiles Stilinski, what are you doing here and what happened?”

 

Stiles uses the distraction to get out of Nurse Rose’s clutches, wiping his forehead, which just is sticky and gross. “Can I just say I fought the law and the law won?”

 

Mrs. McCall simply lifts an eyebrow.

 

“Stiles got on the wrong side of an angry kid.” Nurse Rose says, digging a bottle of aspirin out of her pockets. “Take this immediately. Wash up and you are going home. I’ll tell Kaitlin and Luke that you couldn’t come today.”

 

Stiles gapes. “Come on! A kid threw a telephone at me, he didn’t murder me!”

 

“Stiles Stilinski, do not argue with me on this.”

 

Mrs. McCall frowns. “Wait, I still didn’t get an answer. What are you doing here?”

 

This time Stiles didn’t get a chance to answer. Nurse Rose says while pushing Stiles down the hall, “Stiles has been volunteering for our Big Brother program.”

 

Mrs. McCall looks surprised and Stiles can’t help but feel ashamed. “Really? Is this a new thing? I haven’t seen you around.”

 

“Not knew, not really,” Nurse Rose muses while continuing to fuss over Stiles’ head. “For about – what is it – five months now? That sounds about right. A little bit after that awful incident in the hospital, right Stiles?”

 

But Stiles isn’t even paying attention anymore. Instead his gaze is fixed on Mrs. McCall, whose face went through a myriad of changes within the last few minutes. Surprise, hurt, pity, and now what looks an awful lot like she’s about to give him a hug.

 

Stiles rubs the back of his head. “You know, you’re right, I’m not feeling that great. I think I’m gonna run home. Yeah, I better get going.”

 

Mrs. McCall looks hurt at his rush – but what’s another thing to atone for. “Stiles—“

 

“Please tell Kaitlin and Luke I’m sorry!” Stiles yelps, stumbling backward and trying to grab his backpack.

 

Somehow he came out of the hospital with more to make up for than when he came in.

 

He wipes the blood out of his eye.

 

It ends up on his hands.

 

What else is new.

 

 

 

 

Here’s the thing:

 

It’s not like Stiles _wants_ to be a bad son. It’s just kind of a thing that happens. Because his first instinct is to lie and his first suggestion is to just let people die. Because that’s what you do when someone is hurting others. It’s what _should_ be done.

 

So that’s why Stiles finds himself at home on a Friday night instead of some stupid party Scott got himself invited to because he’s human sunshine and who _wouldn’t_ want Scott McCall at their party. Which Stiles turned down. He made up some excuse about not feeling good – which who would call him out because let’s be honest, he looks like crap – but instead is sitting at home listening to the police scanner.

 

Stiles knows that his father confiscated his other one, but the fact that his dad thought he only had one is laughable. Because if Stiles wants to make up for all the havoc he created, it means he needs to make his father’s job easier. He doesn’t have time for stupid parties where people drink and make out and vomit because that’s _normal_ and he’s not _normal_. He’ll never be normal again.

 

Okay, so it’s about 70/30. 70% he needs to make sure his father is alright, 30% he doesn’t want to go to a party where everyone looks at him like he’s insane and is about to lose his mind. They already do that at school, he doesn’t need to catch the nighttime show. Especially because they’re not far off.

 

_“We got a possible 319 on Habersham Road…”_

Stiles sits on the edge of his seat, instinctively going for the keys in his pocket. _“This is Stilinski, requesting back up at—“_

 

Stiles doesn’t even listen to the rest. He’s out the door before they finish, turning his car on and heading for Habersham Road.

 

Because this is what he realizes: this woman, whomever she is, was a victim of a crime. A crime that usually is prosecuted incorrectly. She deserves to have her justice. And Stiles can get her justice.

 

_“Heading for the bridge. Try and stop him there – if he gets past Blodel, it’ll be difficult to cut him off.”_

So Stiles has the scanner in the car. It’s not a big deal – it’s just common sense.

 

He drives, taking back roads that only his Jeep can take. He can hear the sirens in the distance and the squealing of tires. Stiles thinks about the different routes and hesitates. If he was  a criminal, where would he go.

 

_If_ he were a criminal.

 

There is a hospital full of dead people that probably disagree.

 

The thought makes Stiles eyes open and he takes a left on Maple. Then Cherry. Then Oak. Stiles know exactly where he would go. Because they’re the same.

 

They’re both criminals.

 

He can hear the car getting closer. He knew he would get it right.

 

Stiles puts the Jeep in the middle of the road and turns off the engine. He takes a breath.

 

Stiles looks around the Jeep. Tears form in his eyes as he takes it in – everything that had happened here. So many memories, good and bad. Things that kept him up at night and things that kept him going when the darkness felt too strong. It reminded him of Scott and Lydia. Of Allison and Malia and Kira and Isaac. Of his dad.

 

His mom.

 

Engaging the emergency brake, Stiles leaps from the Jeep and stumbles back a few feet. He can see the car now, whipping around a corner with the police sirens sounding like they were too far off to successfully catch him. Stiles breaks into a run, barely making it a couple feet before the car in pursuit slams on its brakes. It doesn’t help.

 

It collides with the Jeep with a resounding smash and Stiles leaps out of the way to not be hit by any wayward metal.

 

Stiles stares, wide-eyed, at the mass of metal and pants.

 

A man stumbles out of the other car, clutching his head and falling to the ground. All Stiles can do is stare at the Jeep.

 

Or if the twisted piece of metal that now was on fire could be even called a Jeep.

 

All those memories up in flames.

 

Police cars zip to the scene, Stiles still frozen, staring at the wreckage. “NO!”

 

A painful cry pierces through the air and it makes the hair stand up on Stiles’ arm. “ _No!”_ The anguish is so present, so suffocating—

 

“Dad,” Stiles rasps out, but it’s not close to being able to be heard. “Dad, it’s fine.”

 

Stiles watches as his dad runs to the Jeep, now completely ablaze, his shouting echoing in the area. “Dad!” He cries, scrambling to his feet. His legs shake and he stumbles forward.

 

“—you son of a _bitch_ , I will make sure you not only rot in prison, but go straight to _Hell_ , fuc—“

 

“Dad!” Stiles manages to use his full range of voice when he approaches his father grabbing the criminal by the color and shoving him against a police car. “Dad, it’s alright, I’m—“

 

As soon as Stiles says the first ‘Dad,’ the Sheriff turns his head. His eyes are wet with tears, a sort of manic look on his face that reminds Stiles of Scott whenever he used to lose control when he first turns. The Sheriff keeps his hands on the driver’s collar, staring at Stiles as if he couldn’t believe that he was standing here. “Stiles,” he chokes, his voice catching on the word in a terrible way that makes Stiles want to fall apart.

 

Then he drops the man who, still disoriented from the crash, tumbles to the ground. And then he wraps Stiles in a hug so tight that he can’t breathe.

 

But it’s the first time that he feels like he can in weeks.

 

“What the fuck, Stiles?” His dad is screaming, but all Stiles can do is stare at the end of his Jeep. Everything it once was up in flames. “What were you even doing out here? What were you—“

 

He stops.

 

Everything about the Sheriff grows still and he looks at Stiles. Like, really _looks_.

 

“You did this on purpose.”

 

Not a question. A statement. Because he knows. The Sheriff looks at the Jeep in flames and then back at Stiles.

 

“You have another scanner.”

 

Stiles doesn’t need to nod.

 

The Sheriff straightens up. “I have to sort this out. Then we’re going to discuss how incredibly grounded you are when I get home, that is if I don’t hobble you first. Go sit over there and wait for me.”

 

Stiles watches him leave. “I-I—“ He stammers, unsure of what to even say at this point. He didn’t mean to upset his dad. He just wants to make up for everything. He just wants to… “I just wanted to help.”

 

The Sheriff hesitates before returning to the wreckage.

 

Here’s the thing.

 

It’s not like Stiles _wants_ to be a bad son. It’s just kind of a thing that happens.

 

 

 

 

It’s unsurprising that Stiles now has to take the bus.

 

After making his own father think that he burned alive in a car crash, things got a little worse. Stiles wonders often if it’s him. Not the Nogitsune, but actually him. Because he was just trying to help. And as much as he said that – as much as he tried to get his father to understand, it only made it worse.

 

Stiles presses his forehead against the glass of the bus, trying to drown out the voices of the people behind him with his headphones. Even All Time Low couldn’t do it with the amount of yelling that’s happening behind him. He turns his music up a couple times, but it doesn’t help.

 

The worst was when Scott found out.

 

_“Stiles, there’s someone at the door for you!”_

_Stiles sits straight up from the bed, frowning. “What?” He couldn’t have possibly heard that correctly. His father banned him from seeing anyone outside of school._

_“Someone’s at the door!”_

_Stiles manages to lumber down the stairs with minimal flailing, still a bit confused. “I thought there was an embargo of people in the house? Why are you—“_

_Stiles stops when he sees Scott at the door, his face drawn and serious. “Oh my God,” Stiles breathes, panic striking him in a way that he’s grown far too used to over the years. “Who died? What’s in Beacon Hills? Holy shit, is someone attacking you right now?”_

_“Stiles.” Scott says calmly after Stiles stops rambling on. “We need to talk.”_

_Stiles can’t get over his serious tone. “Are you breaking up with me?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth._

_The Sheriff snorts, clapping his hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he makes his way down the hall. “Come to dinner when you’re done talking.”_

_Stiles blinks, but follows Scott to the porch. Scott sits down and doesn’t say anything until Stiles mimics the action. “You’re doing that thing.” Stiles says exasperatedly. “You’re doing that thing where you won’t talk and you make me feel all panicky and share some sort of secret. But jokes on you because that won’t work because I have no idea why you’re here. If someone’s dying, please tell me sooner rather than later so we can go do something about it. Unless it’s Liam, because I’m still all for chloroforming that little bastard.”_

_Scott lets out a weak chuckle. “Don’t lie, I know you have a soft spot for him.”_

_“Yeah, well,” Stiles answers, rubbing the back of his neck. “He learned your talent for actual puppy dog eyes. The little asshole.”_

_Scott’s smile falters. “Stiles,” he says again in that resolute tone that puts ice in Stiles’ bones. If Scott doesn’t tell him who’s dying soon, he’ll—“Your dad told me what happened Friday night.”_

_Stiles stares. “What?”_

_“What is going on with you?” Scott asks, his voice low. “You’re barely there at school. You disappear as soon as classes out. Stiles – what were you thinking parking your car in front of a car chase? You could’ve been seriously hurt! Or killed! Your dad said it caught fire?!”_

_Stiles takes a moment._

_He takes a moment because he feels something he hasn’t felt in a while. Mainly because he couldn’t feel much after the Nogitsune besides guilt and gear, but now he feels_ anger _. Betrayal. “What the hell are you doing talking to my dad about me?” He asks in a dangerously low voice._

_Whatever Scott thought Stiles might say, it clearly wasn’t that. “What?”_

_Stiles stands up, clenching his hands into fists as he glares down at Scott. “What the hell are you doing talking to my dad about me? Do you guys, like, get together and talk about how awful I am and what you’re going to do about me?”_

_“What? No – Stiles, that’s not what—“_

_“Because I’m fine!” He shouts and vaguely notices his neighbors peeking their heads out of their doors._

_“Stiles, we’re just concerned—“_

_“I’m fine!” He screams again. “And why would I lie to you about that, Scott? Because if you remember, it was_ me _who came to you about my suspicions about myself, it was_ me _who didn’t trust things. So why would I say that I was fine if I’m not fine? You don’t trust me anymore!”_

_Scott now is on his feet, his hands in the air. “God, no! Stiles, that’s not what I’m saying! I’m just saying—“_

_“No.” Stiles shakes his head, opening the door to his house. “I’m sure this conversation would be better with my dad so you two can talk about all the problems I cause and what to do with me. Let me know the magic formula to fix the evil out of me.”_

_He swings the door shut before Scott could even get another word out, let alone come inside. He sees his father at the end of the hallway, his mouth slightly open and shock all over his face._

_“I’m not hungry, but Scott’s outside if you two want to have dinner.” Stiles snaps before going upstairs._

Stiles hadn’t talked to Scott since.

 

Which isn’t fair because Scott isn’t the one that’s wrong. Stiles is the one that is – and he just took himself several feet back in the whole ‘redeeming yourself’ thing. How many points do you lose for screaming and slamming the door shut on Scott McCall?

 

Probably a lot.

 

The yelling on the bus gest loud enough to where Stiles can’t ignore it anymore. He rips his headphones from his ears and turns around to yell at whomever is being the obnoxious little punk. Then his eyes widen when he sees what’s actually going on.

 

There’s a freshman in the back, his entire body shaking as he’s surrounded by seniors. They’re whispering something to him that makes his entire face light up in fear. Stiles considers telling the driver, but what good would that do? This is the public school system. What do they even care?

 

Instead, Stiles stands up and makes his way to the back of the bus, just in time to hear, “—you fucking fag. By the time we’re done with you—“

 

“You really want to finish that sentence?” Stiles asks, kneeling on one of the seats. “Because last time I checked, it was 2015.”

 

“Beat it, Stilinski.” One of the seniors snaps, not letting go of the poor kid’s shirt.

 

Stiles laughs. Straight up _laughs._ Because if this Abercrombie and Fitch model-wannabe (seriously, what is with this school and the not-so teenage boys?!) thinks that he’s scared of him, he’s more of an idiot that Stiles already assumed. He’s faced down a fucking alpha pack, he’s not going to cower from some dudebro with a “Imma douche hair flip.”

 

“Um, I’m gonna have to check ‘no’ in that box Brutus.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Let him go, seriously. How old are you?”

 

“If you keep this up, you’re going to have to get someone to come to your rescue.” Another threatens.

 

Seriously, if he doesn’t have claws, he’s just not as intimidating as he thinks he is.

 

“This is feeling a little too West Side Story for me and my certain my snapping’s not up to par.” Stiles says. “Let him go.”

 

“Are you going to make us?”

 

Stiles can’t even take it anymore. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

 

Without thinking it through further, Stiles slams his fist against the nearest dudebro’s face, sending him stumbling into the bus window.

 

Then all hell breaks loose.

 

Stiles really should’ve thought this through.

 

Because all he was thinking was this poor kid all by himself, being beaten up on the bus to school. Every rational thought left at that point. Because he _was_ that kid. He and Scott _were_ those kids. All before sophomore year.

 

What he didn’t think about was that there were four seniors and only one of him and one tiny freshman, cowering in the corner.

 

Considering his fights usually involved a pack of wolves to have his back and a baseball bat, Stiles realizes his hand-to-hand combat really leaves something to be desired.

 

It takes about two minutes for him to end up on the ground, three for the kicking and punching to start, and a grand totally of five minutes until the bus is pulled over and the seniors are yanked off of him. “What the hell is going on?” The bus driver shrieks, staring at the group of them.

 

“That Stilinski kid is an actual psycho.” One of the seniors says. “We were just talking and he came over and sucker punched Darren. Right?”

 

All the seniors turn their attention to the freshman, who’s staring at Stiles with wide eyes. At least, he thinks he is, because his vision is getting a little blurry. He probably should stop getting hit in the head so much. The freshman swallows. “Y-Yeah. Sucker-punched. That kid is insane.”

 

Stiles closes his eyes and swallows blood.

 

“All of you are going straight to the principal’s office when we get to school.” The woman frowns at Stiles, who honestly must be looking pretty rough on the ground of the _fucking bus_ and offers him a hand. He takes it, letting out pathetic little whimpers when he stands, stumbling into the seat next to him. “And you will be going to the nurse’s office.”

 

Stiles clutches his side and tries to say “I’m fine,” but the words are coated in blood.

 

Instead, he hobbles to the front of the bus and sits by himself, trying to ignore the whispers and names being thrown his way. He casts one last look at the freshman whose name he doesn’t know and who he tried to protect, but the kid looks away as soon as he catches his eye.

 

How does this always go wrong?

 

Even when he _tries_ to be good, he can’t do it right. That’s why there are Scott’s in the world. Because Scott knows what to do and what is right and Stiles doesn’t.

 

Placing his head on the back of the seat, Stiles closes his eyes.

 

He waits for everyone to get off the bus before he moves – he says he’s being polite, but screw the person who’s going to make him move from this seat – rolling his eyes at the “Fucking freak” that’s thrown at him when the seniors pass. The bus driver helps him up, but not before eying him. “You were protecting that freshman, weren’t you?”

 

Stiles hesitates. He wipes some blood from his eye. “What?”

 

“You were protecting that freshman, weren’t you?” She repeats.

 

Stiles grips her arm to steady himself, grimacing when he gets blood on her skin. He gives her a weak smile. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters.

 

She doesn’t let him get out. “It matters, Stiles. It _matters_.”

 

Not really.

 

 

 

Stiles thought the worst part of his day would be getting the shit kicked out of him, but it turns out the universe saw an opportunity and had other plans for him.

 

As the bus driver helped him down the stairs, there was already a crowd formed around the bus. Damn texting. Stiles must look worse for the wear because some people audibly gasp when he comes into sight. But then he realizes he recognizes one of them.

 

He turns to see none other than Lydia Martin staring at him with her hand covering her mouth. Next to her is Scott, Kira, Malia, and Liam – all staring at him like the freak he truly is. Stiles simply grips the bus lady’s arm tighter, trying not to let it show that the stares were bothering him. He doesn’t turn in time to not see Scott fight through the crowd – the rest of the pack on his heels – crying out, “Stiles, wait!”

 

Well, it’s not like he can outrun a werewolf on a good day, let alone when he’s half-dead.

 

Stiles sighs when Scott reaches him, acting as if the freeze out never occurred, his eyes full of worry. “Oh my God, what happened?”

 

“Don’t worry, honey,” the bus driver says, completely melting to Scott’s everything, which causes Stiles to roll his eyes. “Your friend is going to the nurse’s office and then speaking with the principal about some bullying on the bus. Even if the little punk won’t admit to it.” The bus driver says darkly.

 

“What?” Scott asks. To be fair, that didn’t really make a lot of sense unless you’d been there.

 

“It’s nothing Scott,” Stiles mutters, shaking his head, but that made him wince. Scott instinctively reaches out, but Stiles hits him with a hard look and Scott drops his hand. “Not a big deal.”

 

“Not a big deal?” Lydia huffs, her eyes narrowing. “I’d believe that if you weren’t covered in your own blood.”

 

Stiles throws her a glare. “Leave it alone, Lydia.”

 

She might say something, but he doesn’t hear it.

 

Why don’t people understand? Why don’t they get that he _needs_ to do this? Why don’t they get that he _needs_ to make things right? And sure – maybe he’s a little worse for wear today, but maybe someday he can pay back all the debt he owes to the world.

 

Because if he can’t? If he can’t pay back the world of debt he owes society, what can he do?

 

That’s why Stiles finds himself in the principal’s with an icepack on his head and his ribcage, right next to the assholes who decided that his face should be hamburger. When his father barges through the door, the principal straightens up. “Sheriff, thanks for coming in. Please have a seat.”

 

“How about no?” The Sheriff snaps. “Because from what I can see is my son covered in blood and four punks with hardly a scratch on them. Tell me why I’m here and not the hospital?”

 

“He sucker punched me!” One of the seniors accused, throwing a nasty look at him. “Because he’s insane!”

 

Stiles looks at the ground.

 

“Jerry, please.” The Principal says, waving his hand. “Be that as it may, the bus driver said that you were harassing a freshman and she saw that he went back to help.”

 

“Just as the kid,” another senior shrugged. “He flat out said that we weren’t doing anything.”

 

“Stiles?” The Principal asks. “Were you helping him? Stiles?”

 

Stiles still doesn’t answer. He deserves this. He needs to make it right. Stiles rubs his shoulder, the aching growing stronger.

 

“Stiles,” his dad says firmly. “Stiles, what happened.”

 

“He’s crazy, isn’t he?” One of the kids says. “Didn’t he go to that crazy house last year? Why would you trust his word over ours? He’s obviously a freak.”

 

“Shut your mouth, young man.” The Sheriff snapped.

 

Stiles closes his eyes.

 

“Sheriff, maybe we should entertain the thought that maybe he has some healing—“

 

“No,” the Sheriff says, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? Are you kidding me with this bullshit?”

 

The Principal’s jaw flinches. “Now listen here, Sheriff—“

 

“No, you listen here. You’re sitting here, telling me that you have an actual adult eye witness, but instead you are relying on the information from four punk kids and the other one that they’re bullying? Is this for real?”

 

“Sheriff—“

 

“No, you should be grateful that I’m not pressing charges. Stiles, come on.”

 

Stiles steadies himself on the chair, trying not to show too much pain on his face. “I was…” Stiles manages to say, pausing at the door. “I just wanted to help.”

 

His voice catches.

 

The Sheriff’s face hardens as he puts his hand gently on Stiles’ shoulder. “Let’s go Stiles. Let’s go have Melissa check you out.”

 

Tears filled Stiles, but he tried to keep them at bay. “I-I just want to help.”

 

The Sheriff leads him away.

 

 

 

“You look like crap.”

 

Stiles turns around to see Malia standing in the doorway.

 

“Thanks.” Stiles says, turning back to his chemistry homework. He rubs his bruised face. 

 

“Scott’s worried about you.” She continues as if Stiles wasn’t ignoring her. “And Lydia. Kira. Your Dad. Even Liam’s been asking where you are.”

 

Stiles continues to ignore her.

 

“So what’s wrong with you?” She asks. “You promised you’d help with my control, but you won’t even answer my phone calls. I learned how to use a phone and everything!”

 

Stiles feels the familiar taste of guilt and bile rise in his throat.

 

“Did what happen in Eichen House not mean anything to you? Did you not mean it when you said you’d help me learn control?”

 

“NO!” Stiles shouts, finally turning around. “I meant it!”

 

Malia stares at him, her face hard to read. “I don’t know which is worse.”

 

Stiles looks away.

 

“I get it, you know.” She says. “What happened in Eichen House, I get it. It’s like in the wild. You didn’t want to fall for me like normal people do. You wanted out like a bear wants to chew its leg out of a trap.”

 

Stiles clenches his fists together.

 

“I’ll do it.” He says softly.

 

“But you need to talk to Scott and Lydia and Kira, because they’re getting really annoying.” Malia continues like she hadn’t heard him, which it occurs to Stiles, that was probably true.

 

“I’ll do it,” he says again, a little firmer. “I’m sorry I – I’m sorry that I haven’t been here for you, Malia.”

 

Malia shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

 

“I should’ve been – I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry. I said I would and I didn’t. I’ll make it up to you.”

 

Because that’s what he has to do. He has to make it up. He has to make everything up.

 

“We can start now.” Stiles says, jumping up. He puts his hands on Malia’s shoulders.

 

“Stiles, that’s not why I’m here.”

 

“But I should’ve been doing this a long time ago. Alright, let’s go!” He claps his hands together. “Okay, so you need to find an anchor—“

 

“Scott keeps saying that, but I don’t know what it means. All this anchor talk, like, I can barely do math!” Malia groans.

 

Stiles grabs her shoulders. “It has to be something that grounds you. Not like an idea, but something strong. Scott’s was Allison and now it’s himself. What is important to you?”

 

Malia looks at him. “I like eating rabbits.”

 

Stiles makes a face. “What – no, Malia. Not something you like, but something that keeps you human.”

 

Her face softens. “My sister.” She says quietly.

 

“Huh?”

 

“My sister,” she said softly. “I loved my sister.”

 

Stiles steps closer. “Yeah, like that.”

 

Tears fill her eyes. “But I killed her.”

 

Stiles freezes. “Wait, no Malia.”

 

“She’d be alive if it weren’t for me.” Her eyes start flashing blue. They flicker and Stiles can feel her claws coming out. She grabs his sides instinctively and he winces. “It’s my fault.”

 

“No, it’s not. Malia, please.”

 

“My sister,” she whimpers. Her claws lengthen. Stiles makes a squeak. “No,”

 

“Malia!” Stiles shouts.

 

Malia slashes down and Stiles makes a pained noise, falling right into her.

 

Her eyes return to normal. “Oh my God!” She pulls her hands back, the claws gone, but blood now staining her fingertips. “Stiles, I’m so sorry!”

 

“It’s no big deal!” Stiles whimpers, trying to ignore the pain. “Really Malia, I’m sorry! I pushed you to do this—“

 

“Let me go get your dad—“

 

“No!” Stiles exclaims, putting his hands up. “It’s not a big deal! Don’t tell my dad!”

 

“But Stiles—“

 

“Seriously, I’m fine!” Stiles exclaims. “Just, listen, I gotta clean up before my dad gets home. Tell Scott, I’ll call him later, okay?”

 

“Stiles—“

 

“ _Please_ Malia.”

 

Malia frowns. “But you smell hurt.”

 

“Well, duh,” Stiles wheezes. “Please, my dad’s getting home soon.”

 

“I’m going to call you later, though.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Stiles says, pushing her out of the room. “Just go!”

 

By the time Malia’s out, Stiles feels a little dizzy. He stumbles into the bathroom, ripping off his shirt as he stares in the mirror.

 

He hates what he sees.

 

Dark rings still live under his eyes. His skin is stained with bruises and his hands with blood.

 

“W-Why,” he stammers, shutting his eyes away from the sight.

 

He holds his side, unable to quell the piercing pain in his side.

 

Somehow, he’s on his knees – when did that happen? Stiles blinks shaking his head.

 

Scott spoke once about regression to the means. As he lays his head on the ground of the bathroom, darkness blanketing his eyes, he wonders if this is it. After all the terrible things he’s done, if this is the universe finally balancing it out. He just wanted a place in the world.

 

But there really isn’t one for a Stiles Stilinski anymore.

 

Are there places in the world for shadows?

+1.

“I’m home!” The Sheriff calls, throwing his jacket on the rack and unholstering his gun. “Stiles, are you here? You better be, seeing as you’re still grounded until the end of time.”

 

No response.

 

The Sheriff goes up the stairs, frowning. “Stiles, I’m not kidding. You are so dead if you aren’t here.” The Sheriff sighs in relief when he notices the light on in the bathroom. “Oh, thank God kid, make a sound. Seriously, I thought I was going to have to—“

 

The Sheriff freezes. His entire world seems to fall apart when he opens the door. Stiles is lying on the ground, surrounded by a small pool of blood. “Oh my God, son?” The Sheriff says frantically. “Stiles. Stiles!”

 

He shakes his shoulders a few more times before he gets a groan out of him, which turns into the most beautiful noise he’d ever heard. “M’Dad?” He chokes, blinking dazedly up at the Sheriff.

 

“Stiles, what happened to you? Hold on, I’m taking you to the hospital right now.”

 

“No,” Stiles says, but the Sheriff doesn’t even spare him a second glance. “Too expensive.”

 

“I don’t care, kid. I would sell everything I own for you.”

 

Stiles shakes his head as frantically as he can. “Not worth it.”

 

“Yes you _are_ ,” the Sheriff insists, pulling out his phone. “And I’m going to remind you of this fact every day from now on. Now who the hell did this to you?”

 

Stiles frowns, opening his eyes a crack. “She didn’t mean to.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’snot her fault. I want’d to ‘elp. I wanted to ‘elp.”

 

The Sheriff closes his eyes. “I know you do, kid. I know.”

 

**XXX**

He wakes to the sound of beeping. Well, that’s inaccurate. He wakes to a searing pain in his side and the sound of beeping. Stiles blinks hazily a few times, shocked that he finds he’s surrounded by everyone he loves.

 

His father and Melissa are in the corner, Scott and Kira are slumped against the wall. Lydia is in the chair by the door, and even Liam and Malia are curled together like to weird cats. Stiles frowns. Why are they here?

 

Why are they always here?

 

It doesn’t make any sense. They should _hate_ him. They should want him dead more than he wants himself dead. They should want—

 

“Dude,” a voice brings him out of his reverie.

 

Stiles looks up to see Scott carefully moving Kira out of the way and coming over to Stiles. “S-Scott,” is all he can manage to say.

 

Scott puts a hand up. “You have to stop.” Scott says firmly.

 

“What?”

 

Stiles can see tears in his eyes and knows they’re present in his. Scott comes over and puts his hand on Stiles’ and then there are black veins running up his arm. “Dude, no,” Stiles protests, but Scott doesn’t let him.

 

“You deserve good things, Stiles.” Scott says firmly, refusing to let go. “And you need to stop.”

 

“Stop _what?_ ” Stiles exclaims, exasperated.

 

“Stop trying to make up for the Nogitsune.” Scott says softly.

 

Stiles stops tugging on his hand and looks at his best friend, his brother. “Why?” He asks, because what’s the point in lying.

 

“Because it wasn’t you. And it’s not your job to ‘make up’ or whatever you think you need to do. It’s hurting you, Stiles. It could kill you.”

 

“Well maybe I deserve it.” Stiles says calmly, the waver in his voice betraying him ever so slightly. Did you ever think of that, Scott?”

 

“No.” Scott says simply. “Because it’s not true. I have never even entertained the thought.”

 

Stiles isn’t sure what to say to that.

 

“Stiles, I need you.” Scott says seriously. “You’re my brother. You’re my pack. I don’t know what I would do without you and I don’t want to find out. I can’t find out. I would do anything in this world to keep you.”

 

Stiles snorts through his tears. “Dude, I’m not a pet.”

 

“But you’re something. You’re my brother and you’re important.”

 

“Scott, please.”

 

“No Stiles,” Scott continues. “We all need you. We need you alive and healthy. We need you to stop.”

 

“B-But,” Stiles says. “I don’t deserve it. I need to balance it back out. I-I need—“

 

“You’re alive.” Scott says. “That was the balance. That’s what the world needed. That was the balance.”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “I-I—“

 

“Please, Stiles.” Scott pleads. “You’re my brother. I can’t lose you too.”

 

Stiles looks at him. His eyes are red, but not in any sort of wolfitude. He doesn’t look like a werewolf so much at this moment. For a moment, he looks like he did back in sophomore year.

 

“I-I—“ Stiles opens his mouth to argue – to say that Scott is wrong, but instead what comes out is. “I need you to remind me.”

 

“I will.” Without hesitation.

 

“I-I—“ Stiles thinks about everything, about the Nogistune, Allison, and all those lives. “I think I need help.”

 

Scott nods. “That’s why we’re here.”

 

Stiles looks around the room at everyone he loves.

 

“That’s why we’re all here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. That was so much longer than I intended.
> 
> I’d really love some prompts if anyone has time – find me on Tumblr! Or to chat. I love discussing things at length. 
> 
> And if you have any time, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Much love and stay wonderful.


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